


Company You Keep

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Company retreat, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of mental/physical illness, Minimal angst but some germophobia, Strangers to Lovers, You can tell I've never been on a company retreat because I basically wrote School Camp for Adults, and some vague Internalised Homophobia because it's Richie, no pennywise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: “I just want everyone to keep in mind,” the speaker at the podium says cheerfully, “that the word  ‘company’ doesn’t just mean business. It also meansfriendships.”The crowd cheers. A man in the corner of the hall gives a loud, semi-sarcastic whoop. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. As if he’s a teenager on Spring Break.Why, Eddie thinks bleakly,would I want to make friends with any of these people?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 44
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

“I just want everyone to keep in mind,” the speaker at the podium says cheerfully, “that the word ‘company’ doesn’t just mean business. It also means _friendships_.”

The crowd cheers. A man in the corner of the hall gives a loud, semi-sarcastic whoop. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. As if he’s a teenager on Spring Break.

_Why_ , Eddie thinks bleakly, _would I want to make friends with any of these people?_

“So,” the speaker continues, blonde curls bouncing with the force of her enthusiasm. “For your first exercise, you’re going to use the sheets we handed out. Try to find one person who fits in each of the categories on your paper. Get to know your co-workers! Remember, you can’t spell ‘corporate’ without ‘care’.”

_Oh, perfect._ Hawaiian shirt is walking towards him. Eddie reads his nametag. _Richie._

“The presenter definitely won a spelling bee at some point, right?” he says, gesturing wildly at the front. “And they’ve just never moved on?”

Eddie smiles out of politeness. Which is a mistake, because it only spurs him on.

“I mean, you can spell ‘corporate’ without ‘care’. You just end up with a top and an O. Or as I like to call it, a night with your mother.”

_Ok, that about exhausts Eddie’s politeness reserves._

“My mother’s dead.”

Richie, _satisfyingly,_ winces a little, but recovers rapidly. He looks down at his sheet of paper. “Dead mother, dead mother...Oh, there it is. Third box down.” He looks up to read Eddie’s nametag and scribbles it in the space.

Eddie looks down at the box, which actually reads, “Plays an instrument”.

“Do _you_ play an instrument?” Eddie asks, hoping to get something out of this interaction.

“Nope.”

“I’m gonna pretend you play the flute.” He writes down Richie’s name.

Richie does a full-body gasp. “Lying on a company quiz? Edward, you’re such a bad boy.”

“Ok,” Eddie says with increasing frustration. “Does my nametag say Edward? Or Eds? Cause I’m pretty sure it says Eddie.”

“Eddie doesn’t fit in the box. So I’m gonna stick with Eds.”

“That’s weird, because ‘Fuckface’ fits in my box,” Eddie mutters, then freezes, wondering if he’s going to get written up for workplace bullying.

But when he looks up, Richie is just grinning at him. He’s less annoying when he smiles, somehow. It’s like it makes the lines of his face fit together properly.

“You gotta stop telling me what fits in your box, man. It’s borderline workplace harassment.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eddie decides that, _no, in fact, he’s even more irritating when he smiles_. “Of all the people-”

“Ok!” comes the voice of the speaker of the podium. “Your 5 minutes are up, so it’s time for the next activity. Trust falls! You’ll be paired with the person you last spoke to.”

_Oh, fuck no._

“You ready to fall into my arms, Eduardo?”

Eddie’s not keen on strangers touching him. He’s also not keen on falling backwards and cracking his head on the wooden floor. Richie probably wouldn’t drop him as a joke, right? Right?

“Stay _there_ ,” Eddie warns as Richie moves to take a step backward. “I refuse to die at a company retreat.”

_Shit_. The speaker has her eyes on them now.

“Fine,” Eddie says. “Let’s get this over with. Are you ready?” he asks. “Don’t stand back more than a half a metre, because-”

“Because you’ll die instantly, yeah, I heard you the first time.”

Eddie relishes the fact that he has an excuse to turn away in a huff. “I’m falling now.”

For some reason, he was expecting hands flat across his back. But Richie’s hands curl around his waist instead. Through the thin material of his button-up, they feel warm, and a little rough. But stable. Eddie’s pretty sure he’s not going to break his skull.

“You good, Eds?” Richie asks, and Eddie jumps a little, because his voice is a lot closer to his ear than he was expecting.

“Um.” He rights himself. “Yep. Your turn.”

“Uh-uh,” Richie says. “Have you seen our height difference? It would be like those photos of tourists trying to hold up the leaning tower of Pisa. But in real life. Which would involve a lot more crushing and screaming.”

“Are you serious?” Eddie asks. “I’m average fucking height.”

Richie gives him a doubtful look.

“Is there a problem here?” asks the cheerful speaker.

“Jesus,” Eddie startles at her sudden appearance.

Richie snorts. “Yeah, he can’t catch me. Look at him. He’s a Christmas elf.”

“Eddie,” the speaker says with a condescending tone, “sometimes a little communication is all it takes. It looks like you need to reassure Richie that you will catch him.”

“I mean,” Eddie says. “I don’t know if I am going to catch him, _now_. He’s kind of being a dick.”

Richie snorts again.

The speaker looks significantly less cheerful, and significantly more tired. “Listen, maybe we can pair you with someone else, but-”

“No,” Eddie says, a little too quickly. He turns to Richie, ignoring the smug little smile that’s currently spreading across his face. “I promise I’ll catch your gangly, oversized body.”

“Aw,” Richie says. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He promptly turns and falls back into Eddie’s arms.

“Jesus,” Eddie says, Richie’s head warm against his chest as he tries to push him off and keep himself upright. “Warn a guy first.”

The speaker gives them a look and walks away.

Richie stands up, spinning around to face Eddie. “You _really_ wanted to stay partners, huh?”

“No,” Eddie says. “I just didn’t want to get paired with someone who takes this shit seriously.”

“Oh, but I _do_ ,” Richie says. “This is basically a blood oath, compadre. Once you trust-fall into my arms, you ain’t never going back. We’re stuck to each other like flies on shit.”

“What…What is that accent?”

“I started with cartel leader, wondered if it was racist, and took a sudden left turn into Southern general. My usual creative process.”

“…Creative process. Let me guess, advertising department?”

“Uh-huh. You?”

“Risk analysis.”

Richie puts on the speaker’s voice. “You can’t spell risk analysis without-”

“Anal,” Eddie interrupts. “Yeah, heard that one before.”

“Jesus, Eddie, first you won’t stop telling me about your box, now you’re randomly bringing up anal. We may be on a retreat, but this is still a place of _work_.”

“I hate you,” Eddie says. “So much.”

Richie smiles. “Risk analysis. So, for you, a room full of people doing trust falls is-”

“800 lawsuits. Yeah. But hey, at least I don’t write fucking _jingles_.”

“Oof,” says Richie, clutching at his heart. “You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy ‘Day or night, call Vantabright?’ That was some of my best work.”

Eddie is saved from having to respond when the speaker announces lunch is being served.

“Come on, Eduardo,” Richie says, and Eddie realises that, apparently, who he's going to sit with has already been decided.


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie’s about to be brave and dish up some salad, he really is, but someone sneezes right into the lasagne tray, and he just. Can’t.

Richie drags him to a table, and it’s only then that he seems to realise there’s nothing on his tray.

“Uh. Did you not see the buffet?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“What? Eds, we haven’t eaten in like 4 hours. We’re not going to eat again for another 6. You sure you don’t want to get something?”

Eddie hates people being concerned over him. It makes him feel this deep well of guilt, like he’s done something wrong.

“I’m just allergic to a lot of things,” Eddie says.

“Yeah? Which things?”

“Um,” Eddie says, glancing at the buffet. “Wheat. Eggs. Tomatoes, probably.”

“Here,” says Richie, passing over his hash brown. Eddie’s impressed he uses a fork instead of his hands, until he drops it directly onto Eddie’s tray. “Pure potato, baby.”

Eddie tries and fails to think of an excuse.

“People are _sneezing_ into the buffet trays,” Eddie says. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Oh thank fuck. I thought you had an eating disorder or something. And I was going to have to single-handedly convince you that you won’t stop being an Adonis if you eat an onion ring. Such a relief to know you’re just neurotic.”

“Ok,” says Eddie, frowning. It feels like he should be offended, although he’s not sure by which parts. “I’m not neurotic. I just don’t want to eat diseased lettuce.”

“Did people sneeze into _all_ the trays?”

“I saw someone sneeze in one. Which means they could’ve sneezed in all of them.”

“That’s dedication,” Richie says. “At that point, I’d let them give me salmonella.”

“Not the same person, dipshit, just-” Eddie sighs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine not eating, this happens all the time.”

“Come on,” Richie says, standing up. “You can have crisps or something right? Let’s blow this popsicle stand and find a café.”

Eddie gapes. “We can’t just…leave.”

“We’re adults,” Richie says. “You think they’re going to call the police if we’re missing for a couple hours? They have our numbers anyway.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t need people to make a big deal over me, honestly I-”

“I’m going to a café. It’s up to you whether you come with me.”

Eddie wraps his arms around his torso as they walk along the street. It’s freezing outside.

“Do you eat at cafes? Or do we need to find you a vending machine?”

“If they seem clean,” Eddie says. “And preferably small.”

Richie stops and looks at Eddie hopefully when they come to a little Italian bistro.

“Yeah,” Eddie concedes. “It seems nice.”

They sit at an aggressively homey table, replete with red checkerboard tablecloth. Richie orders a lasagne and a chocolate milkshake. Eddie orders a salad.

“Um,” Richie says. “Was I on the money about the eating disorder thing, because-”

“Shut up,” Eddie says. “Just because I don’t want to get heart disease.”

They eat quickly, talking all the while. Richie pushes the last of his milkshake over to Eddie. Eddie takes a sip when he’s not looking.

_I don’t share drinks_ , he realises, after.

Oh well. He also doesn’t skip out on company events.

After he finishes, Richie props his head up on his hand, smiling at Eddie.

“This was fun,” he says, and Eddie waits for the punchline. But there isn’t one.

“Oh. Yeah.” _Smooth._

“We should hang out,” Richie says. “Not at a company retreat.”

_Oh. Oh?_

“But I love company retreats so much. They’re all I do in my spare time.”

Richie just grins.

“Are you on Facebook?” Eddie says, getting out his phone.

“Uh, yeah. But under Trashmouth Tozier?”

Eddie types it in and adds him.

“…You’re not even going to question the name?”

“Nope. Makes perfect sense to me.”

“Ooh,” Richie says, looking at his phone as it dings. “This can’t be right. It says I have a friend request from… _Edward_ Kaspbrak.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says. “You’re supposed to keep your social media platforms professional, Trashmouth.”

“Oh, then you’re really gonna love my profile.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

When they get back, everyone is assembled at the lake.

The speaker stares at them as they approach.

“We, uh, got lost,” Richie says. “On the way from lunch.”

She looks over at the lunch hall, 500 metres away.

“There are a lot of trees in the way,” Eddie adds.

“Ok,” she says. “Well, you’re in time for rowing.”

“No,” Eddie says in a small voice.

“Everyone’s already paired up,” she says, ignoring him. “But you guys can row that purple one.” She points to a shabby looking canoe at the water’s edge.

“Ah,” Richie says. “Nothing like a well-loved canoe.”


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie may have to row, but he doesn’t have to look at the water.

The opaque, disease-infested water.

“So,” Richie says. “We’ve established you hate every conceivable aspect of company retreats. And yet, you’re here.”

“My manager ‘strongly suggested’ I go. ‘Learn people skills’ and ‘get out of my comfort zone’. Which is bullshit, because I don’t even _have_ a comfort zone.”

Richie snorts. “Yeah, I think everyone’s just slightly uncomfortable, always.” He pauses, thoughtfully. “God, I hope everyone is. Would be pretty depressing if it was just the two of us, right Eds?”

Eddie stares at him. “What are you _talking_ about? You’re way too comfortable with everything. You started a conversation with a joke about fucking my dead mother. You have a comfort zone the size of Maine.”

Richie abruptly drops the conversation, running his hand through the water beside the boat and flicking some at Eddie. “Waters getting choppy, Spaghetti.” 

Eddie flinches. “Keep in mind how easy it is to hide a body in a swamp, asshole. There’s probably 50 in here already.”

Richie sticks one of his now-dripping fingers in his mouth. “Mm. Hints of citrus, wormwood, and guppy. Not tasting corpse, though.”

Eddie gags. “How have you stayed alive for this long? I’m genuinely asking.” He’s dumbfounded enough by it that he manages to row into a bank without noticing.

He tries to lift his oar out of the sludge and reeds, but he swears he sees the flash of a snake, or slug, or _something_ , and ends up dropping it. Or, if you’re being pedantic, which apparently Richie was intent on being, _throwing it_.

“I got it,” Richie says, after they’d spent five minutes inching their way towards the trapped oar.

“Don’t lean half your giant body out of the canoe, you total-” Eddie manages to get out before he’s drenched in _disgusting muddy bacteria-infested waters_.

Eddie starts treading water immediately. It’s not deep, but there’s no way he’s putting his foot down there and stepping on a fucking sea slug. Even in shoes.

“Eds?” he hears. “Are you ok? Can you open your eyes?”

“Why would I open my eyes?” Eddie says, entirely reasonably, “To let all the swamp water run into them?”

Richie sighs, as if this is not entirely reasonable, then says, “I got you,” and runs his thumbs, _warm and gentle,_ across his eyelids, and under his eyes.

Eddie blinks them open, then, and _oh_ , Richie’s standing very close. _Equally drenched_ , he notices, _which means…_

“You basically just got your swamp juice in my eyes.”

“Your mother says the same thing every time I visit,” Richie says, and wades to the bank.

“You coming?” He clambers onto a rocky part and manages to flip the canoe from there. “That’s what she asks just before I get my-”

“Shut up,” Eddie says. He doesn’t want his feet to touch the sludge, but he manages to make his way over with an awkward doggy-paddle. He lays an arm across the bank and tries to hoist himself up on the rocks. And slips back down at the last second.

“Aw, Eddie. You’re too small.”

“No I’m fucking not, it’s just a very slippery rock.”

Richie leans over, holding out a hand. “Grab on.”

Eddie eyes it warily before taking hold. Richie intertwines their fingers and pulls him up while Eddie’s other hand grapples with the rock. Eddie makes a point of not looking at the tendons pulse in his wrist.

With some slipping and sliding, they both make it back into the canoe.

“Jesus,” Richie says, staring now that he’s face to face with Eddie and his suddenly-sheer white shirt. “Why are you ripped?”

“I eat vegetables, occasionally,” Eddie says, clutching his arms around his torso. “Can we get back already?”

“Um,” Richie says, glancing all over the place, “Do we have an oar?”

Hand-paddling is truly inefficient. But it gets you there eventually.

They reach their starting point, drag the canoe up the bank and see the camp counsellor from that morning staring at them.

“Uh-uh,” she says as they start heading up the hill. “You’re not going inside until you dry off.”

Eddie gives her a look. “We need to shower _. Immediately._ ”

“I need oars,” the woman says, looking at the canoe. “We all need things.”

Eddie gapes at the unfairness of it all. He checks her nametag in an attempt at affability. “But. _Cheryl_. It’s his fault,” he says, pointing at Richie.

“Eddie,” Richie says reproachfully. “I thought we agreed. Trust falls are a life bond.”

The woman shrugs. “All I’m saying is, if I find mud on the carpet, I’m charging you the whole cleaning fee,” she says, and walks away.

“Eds,” Richie says helpfully. “If there were flesh-eating bacteria in there, they’ve already infested us. Let’s just dry off. It’s a nice day.”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie says, “perfect day to bake myself in clay.” But he trudges off to find a grassy knoll all the same, sitting down and hugging his knees to his chest. _Sunshine is a disinfectant, right?_

Richie lays next to him, closing his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head.

It makes his shirt ride up, revealing a pale strip of skin, specks of dirt caught in the hair trailing down his stomach. Eddie wants to brush them away, but _how many workplace boundaries should you really cross in one day?_

Eddie’s eyes dart back up as soon as he realises he’s been looking too long. And, _fuck_. Richie’s eyes are open now. And fixed on Eddie’s face.

Eddie waits for a smug comment, but Richie glances away as soon as Eddie meets his gaze, looking as guilty as Eddie’s feeling.

_So._

_That’s fucking weird._

It’s a sunny day, and it doesn’t take long before they’re dry enough to head inside. _Small mercies._

Eddie slips into his room first. Richie’s is just a few doors down the hall.

He starts the shower running. Lathers his whole body up in soap and combs shampoo through his hair about 8 times, until he’s sure all the grains of dirt are gone. As soon as he gets out of the bathroom, he hears knocking on his door, but he’s definitely not opening it in a towel. Not when it could be his boss.

“Give me one second,” he yells, slipping on slacks and a button-up.

The knocking doesn’t stop, but it does vary. It’s turning into an attempt at the Rugrats theme tune by the time he opens up.

Richie’s standing there. Wearing his glasses, and a towel, and apparently nothing else. Water dripping from a cowlick in his hair onto his collarbone.

Eddie clutches the door frame tightly enough that he feels the ache in his fingers.

He thinks about it for a second, admittedly. But it’s a bad idea. This is a _work event_. Besides. Eddie is a third (or tenth) date kind of guy.

He’s about to say as much, when Richie says, “Do you have any spare clothes? As soon as I showered I realised I only brought the one outfit.”

Eddie’s cheeks burn like they’ve been bee-stung. “Mm-hm,” he says, trying to dig his brain out of the shame-hole it’s currently residing in. “Come in.”

Eddie pulls out 2 spare outfits for Richie to choose from and lays them on the bed.

“I knew your paranoia would come through. Though you could’ve brought an uncollared shirt for me. It is a retreat.”

“It’s a _company_ retreat,” Eddie shoots back.

Richie smiles and picks up the grey slacks and blue-green floral button-up.

 _Suits him_ , Eddie’s brain supplies unhelpfully.

“Um,” Eddie says, hit with a realisation. “Do you need anything else? Underwear, or whatever?”

“Mine is soaked in swamp juice,” Richie says. “More than usual, I mean. So yeah, that’d be good. Unless that’s weird. I can always go commando, I guess.”

“Do _not_ go commando,” Eddie says fervently. “It’s-that’s like, a health code violation. And public indecency, basically,” he says, making Richie laugh.

He rifles in his bag to pull a pair out and throw it at Richie.

Richie catches them, stretching the steel-blue boxer briefs between his hands. “Edward. Is this silk? I mean, I always knew you were a fancy-pants, but this is like… Victoria’s Secret shit.”

“Victor’s Secret,” Eddie corrects absent-mindedly. “It’s a thing.”

“Shut up,” he says when Richie raises an eyebrow. “They’re not _from_ there, I just happen to know-Whatever. I’m not the one who brought one pair of underwear to a 2-day work event.”

“I’m a light packer,” Richie says.

“You’re a health hazard. Go get dressed.”

Eddie lays out a jacket, shoes and socks for Richie while he changes in the bathroom.

Eddie gives Richie a once-over when he opens the door. The look suits him. Even if the shirt is…a little too small.

“I _am_ a health hazard,” Richie says. “One of these buttons is going to pop off and shoot straight through someone’s eye, for sure.”

Eddie chooses to ignore that. It’s inevitably going to lead down a conversational path along the lines of _you’re so teeny-tiny, Eddie. Do you buy from the children’s section?_

Instead, he says, “I’m hungry. Do you want to head out for dinner?”

“And miss out on campfire night?” Richie asks, in a tone of voice that suggests that is not even an option.

Eddie groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I initially wrote Victor's Secret as a joke counterpart to Victoria's Secret because to me it sounds like the title of an 18th century children's morality tale. Turns out it's real, oops.


	4. Chapter 4

They’re sat on glorified tree trunks, basically. Eddie, in vain, keeps trying to fan away the smoke from the fire.

He wants to complain to Richie that they’re basically worshipping a cancer machine, but Richie’s been dragged into conversation with the woman next to him. Or not dragged, necessarily. Maybe he’s enjoying it. Maybe he likes her. Eddie can never tell these things.

He tugs his jacket closer to his chest. Richie can’t be warm either, but he’s unbuttoned his borrowed shirt in case it bursts. He looks much more like Richie with the singlet peeking through underneath. It was weird enough for Eddie, seeing Richie in his clothes, but it’s weirder seeing them suit him.

Cheryl trudges over and drops a bundle of sticks in the middle of the circle. “Time to make damper and roast marshmallows, folks!”

Eddie hears Richie snort next to him, and just _knows_ it’s at his horrified expression.

He’s about to stand up to leave when Richie lays a hand on his knee.

_Nope. Your dumb big warm hand is not gonna convince me._ “We invented plates for a reason,” Eddie says. “So we wouldn’t have to eat off possum-shit covered sticks.”

“Relax,” Richie says, pulling packets from the satchel at his feet. “I bought contraband. Kale chips, since you’re all weirdly healthy. And Snoballs, because buying kale chips spontaneously gave me depression.”

“Oh,” says Eddie, really not prepared for Richie having this level of forethought. “Um. Thank you.”

Eddie’s mid-reach for a Snoball when Cheryl cops them, raising an eyebrow. “You know we provide the catering, right?”

“Eddie’s allergic to _everything_ ,” Richie says, pitch rising to dramatic heights. “Do you want him to _die_?”

And Eddie thinks he might be a tiny bit in love.

Right up until the campfire singalong, when Richie suggests one of their company jingles, beaming at Eddie.

But for 15 minutes, at least.

Eddie and Richie are the last ones to leave. Turns out the two of them have insomniac tendencies.

Richie moves all their stuff to the grass, lying back and watching the shifting sky above.

“You coming, Spaghetti?”

Eddie sits next to him. “I’m not lying down,” he says. “I just washed my hair and the ground is gross.”

“Ok,” says Richie, and smiles at him. Not a teasing smile, or an _I can convince you_ smile. Just an _I’m glad you’re here_ smile.

Eddie can feel the blood pulsing through his limbs. He wonders which disease that’s symptomatic of.

_Maybe he’s overheating_.

He slips his jacket off.

Then puts it on the ground behind him, laying his head back.

Richie’s smile grows. He tips his head to the side and Eddie does the same. Which is probably a mistake, because now there’s only a few inches between them.

“Eds?” Richie says, like he’s waiting for confirmation.

Eddie can feel his warm breaths. “Yeah?”

“This is _really_ comfortable underwear.”

Eddie snorts and elbows him in the rib.

And suddenly Richie’s lips are against his, hand sliding up his neck, into his hair. 

And just as quickly he’s laying back, not looking at Eddie, fisting handfuls of the grass.

And it doesn’t look like he has a comfort zone the size of Maine. It looks like maybe it’s the size of a blade of grass. And rapidly shrinking.

And Eddie is very grateful for his weird brain override, the one that lets him shove all his anxiety to the back of his brain as soon as someone else starts freaking out. It comes in handy sometimes.

He turns on his side to face Richie. Reaches out to rest his hand on Richie’s bicep.

Richie flinches a little. Says, “I’m sorry,” and stops short.

“Don’t be,” Eddie says. “Can I kiss you again?”

And Richie closes his eyes at that, but when he opens them, he’s looking at Eddie, wide-eyed and nodding.

Eddie likes the feeling of his 5 o’clock shadow under his fingertips, and his Snoball-flavoured mouth, and _him_.

He’s in the middle of mumbling through some of that, pressing kisses along the line of Richie’s shoulder, when a flashlight interrupts them.

He sits up, squinting at the bright glow.

“Guys,” Cheryl says, “this is why you have your own rooms.”

“Don’t call our parents,” Richie says. “We’ll never break curfew again.”

“Um,” Eddie says, “maybe you could not mention it to our bosses either.”

Cheryl narrows her eyes. “Give me a Snoball and we have a deal.”

Richie tosses her the packet, which she catches with one hand.

“Whole packet gets you a free piece of advice as well,” she says, walking away. “The fire ants come out at night.”

Eddie stands up rapidly.

“I like her,” Richie says thoughtfully. “She’s a good camp counsellor. I feel very counselled.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie says, brushing himself down. “So I’m going inside. But uh, maybe tomorrow we can…”

“Sit on the bus home together and listen to music, each with one earbud?” Richie supplies.

“Only if it’s my music,” Eddie says. “I have this sinking feeling that you only listen to cheesy, semi self-aware 90s white-boy jams.”

“Wrong. 18 straight hours of Christian rock.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you.”

“Guess you’ll just have to listen to find out.”

Eddie smiles. He’s actually, _God forbid_ , looking forward to listening to 2 hours of Right Said Fred.

“Save me a seat, Trashmouth.”


End file.
